Monthly Flash Fictions: Avatar: The Last Airbender
by Gray Jedi 4000
Summary: A collection of flash fictions/drabbles/writing prompts in the A:tLA fandom. Will be updated monthly. You could probably have guessed all that from the title. (Rated for safety, individual ratings inside.)
1. Witchcraft

**Rating: K plus**

**Genre: Supernatural**

**Summary: Zuko can do some rather...unusual things. It's not the Firebending I'm talking about.**

* * *

There was a pattern on the floor in front of him - a five-pointed star inside a pentagon inside a circle, the points of the star coinciding with the spots where the pentagram touched its surrounding circle. Phonetic runes lay in the spaces between lines, each element and combination given its own place on the ritual. He knew well the chemical combinations this ritual would start.

He should. He'd made it.

Slowly, he began to trace the ritual - starting, as always, at the aether point - in ink made from enchanted obsidian. Every magic or chemical item here he'd either gathered or enchanted himself, from the ink he was using to the various exotic Fire Nation forest plants in jars all around the study. He checked on each one habitually as he moved around the shapes in front of him, dipping his brush in the ink as he went to keep the ritual smooth and steady in form. Runes would come later - always the base, the star-inside-pentagon-inside-circle, first. Aether done, then down counterclockwise to fire, air, water, and earth, in their turns. Then the runes, based on sounds - strange, that. He'd always thought of language as a glyphic thing, but apparently there was more than one way to go about recording what people meant.

There. Done. There was the most writing at the fire and earth point, but some at the air point. All intentional.

Wouldn't the Gaang be surprised by his little fireworks.

* * *

**This is my first flash fiction in the fandom, but I have about a billion on the Star Wars one. Just saying.**


	2. Firebird in the Mirror

**Rating: **K plus

**Genre: **Urzai First Meeting

**Summary: **When she meets Ozai, Ursa causes quite the scandal. But phoenixes do not concern themselves with the whispers of lower creatures.

* * *

A stir in the crowd.

Ursa turns to look as the people's heads dip suddenly, and she sees the cause of their disturbance. Prince Ozai has arrived. He glides across the ground in that way only nobles can do, and everyone else prostrates before him. Ursa almost does the same - she has heard the rumors about him. Cold. Aloof. The classic Fire Nation noble. - but then their eyes meet. He mirrors her. The same odium, the same thirst for revenge against the world. Something has broken him. Society maybe. It tried to break her.

She straightens up again. Phoenix does not bow to phoenix.

He keeps looking at her, eyebrow raising. He doesn't look angry, only surprised. Perhaps pleasantly so. The corner of his mouth keeps ticking up. Her parents hiss at her to get down from below, but she doesn't listen. She doesn't need to. She's found kindred, and everyone else can kowtow and cower.

Ozai comes to her, stepping over the bodies of everyone else in his path. He smiles now, really smiles, and stops before her. "Your name, my lady?"

She mirrors him now, smiling exactly as he does. "Ursa, great Prince."

"Ursa. You aren't one for tradition, are you?" He motions behind himself as she murmurs a 'no, great Prince,' and the crowd stands up, hesitantly, whispering to themselves about scandals and impropriety.

She doesn't care. Phoenixes like her and Ozai don't care.

* * *

**So so sorry I didn't get to you guys back in April. Life has been crazy. Also, yes, this does tie into some of my extensive headcanons about Ozai's background and the Fire Nation in general. As always, reviews are very welcome!**


	3. Chaos Distilled and Applejuice

**Rating: **K plus

**Genre: **Horror/Supernatural

**Summary: **Chaos, for Jet, is only an apple away.

* * *

_What is that?_ is all Jet can think when he spots the thing at the side of his bed. It seems like some sort of fruit, at least in shape, but it's pure gold–impossibly gold. He runs his thumb along the smooth surface, marveling at its metallic-yet-soft feel. There are marks on one side. He studies them, trying to make something of the odd shapes and lines–and then they _move._

Characters form from the mess of wriggling lines. _FOR THE FAIREST_

He blinks, and the characters start wriggling again, creating another, longer set of words.

_Hello, grandson. Enjoy your Apple of Discord. _

_ -Eris_

Apple of Discord? He's never heard of anything like that, though he isn't one for campfire stories. Maybe one of his kids would know...but something told him to keep this hidden. He could feel the chaos and war radiating off of the object.

Best to keep it hidden for now.

* * *

**AAAAAAAAAAAAND it's July. Hope no-one's too disappointed by the delay, but no-one ever really reads these, do they?**


	4. Pain and How It Heals You

**Genre:** Angst/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

**Rating:** T (for mentions of self-harm)

**Summary: **Zuko and Katara talk about something surprising they have in common. (Bechdel/Reverse Bechdel Tests, zero of six criteria reached)

* * *

Katara is woken in the night by a sound outside her door - a footstep. Usually she's the one creeping around at night, so this is different. She slides out of bed silently and creeps to her door. A flash of red catches her eye - Zuko? What's he doing up this late?

She decides to investigate. She follows him closely. He seems...distracted. In the light of the moon, as they move out to the patio, she can see dark lines on the skin of his arms. He starts rifling through their supplies, and she sneaks up behind him.

"What are you doing?" she accuses.

He whirls, guilt written clear on his face. "I - um - I - do you have any bandages?"

Bandages? That might be an allusion to the lines on his arms. Now that she's up close, she can sense it's blood. "You...you cut?"

The question takes him by surprise - so much so that he tells the truth. "I - yea. I just - need some bandages."

She sighs. "Come over here," she says, waving him over to one of the benches and taking out her waterskin. The water glows a little as she takes it out and focuses on channelling her healing energy. "Just relax. I'll have this fixed up in no time."

"You're not - you're not going to..."

"Judge? No." She paused, and then said what she'd never thought she'd say, especially to _Zuko_. "I used to do it too."

He looks up at her, confused and relieved all at the same time. "You...why?" is all he eventually says.

She shrugs. "I just...I don't know. It was like my brain was numb - still is, a little. I couldn't feel. I didn't know if anyone else had suffered the same thing, and I had to be strong for my tribe, and I couldn't turn to Sokka because - well, he was Sokka. One day I accidentally cut myself with an ice form I was trying and, well... It made me feel better." She was done with about half of the lines - Zuko must have had a _really_ bad day.

He nods in agreement. "For me...for me it was fear. I was always on the verge of panic, and it was worse when people were around, especially my crew. I accidentally cut myself in practice and realized that I could use pain to make myself feel better. When Uncle found out, he thought I was punishing myself. Made me promise not to do it again, to tell him if I was feeling guilty for something, but that...that wasn't why I was doing it."

She'd gotten another quarter done while he was rambling. "Almost done. What prompted it this time?" He winces, and she realizes her mistake. "I mean - you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just...I just wanted to know."

"It's fine." He waves her off with his good arm. "I just had a little panic attack for no reason."

"Mm." It's good to know that none of them caused it - unless he was lying? But no. Zuko was a terrible liar. She'd have been able to tell.

Katara finishes the rest of of Zuko's lines and stands up. "That's all of them. Now go to bed - you need your rest."

"So do you," he points out.

"Yes, and I'm going back to bed too. No 'extra practice,' now."

"You know about that?"

"I know everything," she says, pushing him gently towards the door. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

* * *

**So, I'm starting a new challenge based on the Bechdel Test, which goes something like this: 1) There are at least two women, who 2) have a conversation about 3) something other than a man. For each requirement to be fulfilled, all the preceding requirements need to be fulfilled as well. The Reverse Bechdel Test is the same, but with the genders reversed. I'm going to be writing stories at each level of neither, one, or both that specifically try to break expectations of how feminist/equal each requirement would imply. It's going to be a fun ride.**

**Also, that went _way _longer than I expected. These two had a lot to say.**


	5. Power and Corrupting Young Ladies

**Genre:** Romance-ish, Villainy, Horror

**Rating:** K plus

**Summary:** Mother was right. Power is not for a young lady of honor. (BT, zero of three criteria reached, RBT, one of three criteria reached)

* * *

Boots clicked through the stone hallways, echoing up and down - not that anybody could hear it over the hubbub of officials, generals and sycophants clustered around the doors to the Fire Lord's personal chambers. These were the best of the best, the upper crust of the upper crust, the people who decided the nation's fate. And all of them were men.

Ursa tried to calm her shaking hands. Ozai was by her side, walking far too fast for her to keep up with comfortably, which did nothing to help her nervousness. She had to sprint back up to him every thirty seconds.

"Why are your legs so long!" she hissed after another sprint, grabbing his arm to stop him. "Slow down!"

He turned to her, slight amusement on his face. They were almost to the crowd. "I have to beat you there, don't I? To introduce you."

She glared at him with a face that she suspected was more stop-being-right than you're-wrong-and-you-know-it. Her suspicions were confirmed as Ozai gently pushed her off his arm. "Stay behind me now, up until you're introduced."

"Do you think they'll like me?" she managed to ask before Ozai walked away completely.

"It doesn't matter whether they _like_ you, dear. It matters whether they'll follow your orders." He strode ahead now, and Ursa followed nervously. Her mother had drilled into her that a proper lady must be gentle and kind and submissive, and must never give someone a reason to not like her. They were not supposed to _order_, they were supposed to _request,_ and it wasn't ladylike to want to have power.

Of course, she'd done a lot of unladylike things since she'd married the Prince.

His voice rang out, cutting through the court's babble. "Introducing the Princess Ursa!" Ursa spotted Zhao off to the side. He seemed - jealous? She couldn't tell from this far away, but her attention was diverted to the crowd in front of her as she stepped out from behind her husband. They were bowing, deeply, respectfully.

They were bowing to _her_.

Suddenly she realized why Ozai had told her to wait. Mother had always said that a woman's proper place was in the home, serving her husband. She'd said to be quiet, to be respectful, to be prim and proper and to never raise her voice. She'd said that power would corrupt a young lady, make her unmanageable (and no man wants an unmanageable wife), ruin her prospects and get her cast out of society. She'd said many things, most of which Ursa had chafed at.

The display in front of her was proof that Ursa was right.

* * *

**Okay. Finally done with that. I am very much an Urzai shipper (is that why no-one reads my stuff?) and yes, I like to deal with feminist themes. Also, again, more headcanon for my son Ozai (even if he was a side character here). See if you can guess what it is. Review are very welcome!**


	6. Undiagnosed

**Genre:** Angst

**Rating:** T (mention of adult themes)

**Summary:** A peek at Ozai and Zhao's relationship during the teenage years. (BT, zero of three criteria reached, RBT, all criteria reached)

* * *

Ozai has the bruises again.

How long had the Prince been getting them? It seems like forever. They'd started maybe a year after they met. Zhao can see them ringing his (crush? friend? lover?) Prince's neck like some horrible noose had been twisted around it. Ozai's collared cape lays on the floor by his bed, and his shirt is almost hanging off him. Like it's been ripped. Like someone tried to expose him.

But who? And how? Ozai's the greatest firebender Zhao's ever met - he switches his flame's color as easily as he switches paints. No-one can overpower him. Of that, Zhao's sure. And no-one of the divine Royal Family is really sick enough to do that to one of their own.

Right?

But enough of futile speculation. Even if Zhao figures out who, they're probably out of reach. Zhao and Ozai sometimes have fantasies of running away, finding some place in the outer reaches of the nation or the colonies where they could build a life for themselves with Ozai's paintings and Zhao doing...something, anything, to help them survive, but those are hopeless fancies. There's nothing Zhao can do.

"Ozai," he murmurs, standing over his friend. The heap of misery on the bed stirs, revealing a handsome face and despairing eyes. Somehow the bruises never appear on his face. "Let - let me see your wounds."

It's their routine. Whenever the bruises strike, Zhao tries his best to treat the serious wounds. He slips the damaged shirt off his Prince's damaged body, trying not to aggravate the injuries. Scratches and burns mar where the bruises haven't touched. Ozai's ribs are visible.

"Be gentle," Ozai murmurs. As if he needs to tell him.

There are bandages in the left second drawer down of Ozai's vanity. Zhao fetches them and starts pressing gauze to Ozai's bleeding wounds and slathering aloe on the burns. Tiny gasps of pain are all he hears from the prince as he treats the injuries. As snarky as Ozai could be at other times, when he'd gotten a fresh round of these mysterious injuries, he almost never speaks.

It takes...a while, but Zhao has done all he can. His hands fall from busily rubbing ointment to resting on Ozai's side. Ozai's still despairing. It will take a while for him to get back to his normal self.

He stares for a while, a little of the dark fog in his prince's eyes seeping into his own mind. Eventually Ozai shifts over - his actions delayed, his movements sluggish - and Zhao lays down beside him. He will give what little comfort he can, though it's hard not knowing what the issue is. He feels like a doctor prescribing pain medication without knowing if a headache is a migraine or a stroke.

Agni, why must he be so helpless?

* * *

**So, so sorry to the three people still reading this, this is so late. More headcanon for Ozai. I have...a lot. As always, reviews, ****suggestions, and prompts are very welcome.**


	7. Chatting with the Enemy

**Genre:** Drama?

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** In an AU where Zuko has captures Sokka, two teenagers talk about the women in their lives. Set sometime in S1. (BT 0 of 3, RBT 2 of 3)

* * *

"Your sister," the prince says behind him.

Sokka turns around, body tense but position casual, trying not to give his nervousness away. "What about her?"

"She's a waterbender. Very powerful. And Azulon wiped out the Southern waterbenders." For a bad liar, Zuko had an excellent poker face.

"Oh yea. Your grandfather." Sokka scowled - which was weird, since it was usually Zuko who did the scowling - and spat, "He's the reason my mother had to die for her."

_That_ got a twitch out of the prince. He looked away, perpetual scowl morphing into something like grief. "My father killed my mother over me."

What -

_What -_

No. "No."

"Yes." He sighed, that scowl back, but still tainted with heartache. "He was going to kill me. Mom offered herself instead." He leaned against the wall of the ship, looking off into the distance.

What.

"Your family must be pretty messed up," Sokka finally says. All he got was a little hum of acknowledgement. "And what did you want to know about my sister?"

"How she survived. How much training she's had. I need to know what I'm up against."

Sokka turned and narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think I'll tell you anything?" he demanded, though his voice was softer than it would have been normally. Zuko's revelation...

Well. If his father would do something like that to his own _wife_, then the scar would make a little more sense.

"Nothing. But you are my closest resource. And my only."

"That doesn't mean I'll tell you anything. There's no chance."

"There's a slight chance. Better than what I would have had."

The guy _had_ tried to hunt down the Avatar. He must be really determined. "Fine. I'll tell you this: she's short for the Water Tribes, she can fight, she has braid-thingies in her hair that Gran-Gran wouldn't tell me about, and her name is Katara."

"I know all of that."

"Too bad."

"Never mind," Zuko sighed as he pushed off the wall and walked away.

* * *

**I managed to get this in by midnight. I promise I'll be better next decade XD**


	8. Court Gossip

**Genre:** Character Study

**Rating:** T for mention of sexual themes

**Summary:** Ursa has a conversation. Ozai has thoughts. (BT: 2 criteria reached, RBT: 1 criteria reached)

* * *

Lady Koun leans over with a conspiratorial murmur. "Well. A proper lady would never have opinions on men, as she must be prepared for any husband, and of course I would never be anything but a proper lady, but - well. I have to say, you got lucky with Ozai."

Ursa looks over at her. Lady Koun had married a high-ranking official in Azulon's court, and like every woman who could stand members' of Azulon's court long enough to get married to them, she is an absolute twat. "And how did I get so lucky?"

"Well," she says. "Look at him. Tall, strong, rumored to be able to please even the pickiest woman. Honestly, I'm sure any woman with eyes is _soooo _jealous of you."

A memory plays in Ursa's head. Their first night. Not their wedding night - they hadn't touched each other then. No, they'd taken weeks to be comfortable enough around each other to strip (for Ozai to be comfortable enough with her to let her see even his chest), and even that had been egged on by a forceful Azulon. She'd been absolutely fine with merely sleeping beside her husband, of light conversation in the evenings and peaceful cohabitation through lack of interaction, but the Fire Lord...had been eager for grandchildren. Even Iroh, who is usually busy with his own duties as Crown Prince, had seemed to notice their silence in the bedroom. Their first night had been quiet, mostly, and they'd given up the endeavor too quickly for any real pleasure. And Lady Koun twitters about Ozai's supposed prowess between the sheets.

Being a Princess is wonderful, both in terms of power and in comfort, but why in Koh's lair does everyone want a piece of her sex life?

"I have known him far better, and far more intimately, than any other woman, with or without eyes." This, she is sure of. Ozai had been unexpectedly modest, trembling a little, when he'd brought up the idea. Even if he had not been so inexperienced as his performance and anxiety had indicated, surely his hypothetical earlier lovers wouldn't have been truly deep loves. "Wouldn't you agree that the one who knows him best is the best one to pass judgement on his performance?"

Lady Koun gets the implicit message. _Don't go trying to steal my man._ "Of course you're right, my lady." She steps away, just a little affronted, and goes off to twitter twatter with a group of fluffballs near the main fountain, leaving Ursa to breathe in solitude and peace.

* * *

Ozai swishes the rice wine around in his glass, keeping an eye on Azulon and Iroh to his right. It still contains the first wine the servant poured; Ozai does not trust himself while drunk, and he trusts Azulon while he is drunk even less. He wishes for Zhao to be here. He wishes for Ursa to be by his side as a long-standing wife and friend.

(It is lonely at the top of the pyramid.)

One of the court chatterboxes approaches his wife, who stands alone in one of the higher corners, near the royal seats. She's done that ever since he's known her, ever since she first got in the carriage with him and Azulon to be carted off and displayed as the trophy Princess, the spare, just as he is the trophy spare Prince.

(She doesn't know how alike they are. How Ozai could help her, teach her.

If only he could speak to her. If only he could speak.)

He squints, and tries to remember the puffball's name. Kya? Kata? Koat? Something like that. It's most likely unimportant. She deploys her fan and leans over to Ursa, ignorant of the way her words carry over to Ozai despite it. "Well. A proper lady would never have opinions on men, as she must be prepared for any husband, and of course I would never be anything but a proper lady -" Ozai rolls his eyes at that. A _true_ proper lady has enough brains to stay away from the Imperial Court. "But - well. I have to say, you got lucky with Ozai."

He tries to ignore the implications of those words and take the compliment at face value.

"And how did I get so lucky?"

It doesn't work.

"Well, look at him. Tall, strong, rumored to be able to please even the pickiest woman." It was probably Iroh that had started that rumor, hoping for his 'precious little brother' to loosen up and sink to his and Azulon's level. "Honestly, I'm sure any woman with eyes is _soooo_ jealous of you."

Any woman, with or without eyes, _ought_ to be jealous of her, and not just for him.

(_Like anyone would ever be jealous of the one who got stuck with _you_,_ Azulon's voice whispers.)

He can see Ursa's hesitation in replying. Maybe she's thinking about that disastrous first night. (It was inexperience. He's sure panic attacks are normal. He is _not weak._ He _isn't._)

"I have know him far better, and far more intimately, than any other woman, with or without eyes," she finally says, cold annoyance hardening her voice. Court fluffballs tended to do that. "Wouldn't you agree that the one who know him best is the best one to pass judgement on his performance?"

(Something inside of him, something small and weak and helpless and too powerful, whispers that there's no way that judgement will be favorable.)

Lady Koun's smile wavers for a little, Ursa's intimidation striking true. "Of course you're right, my lady." Her hands tremble just a little as she retreats, leaving his wife alone. She breathes, in and out, a little tension melting away from her face.

Ozai shuts his eyes and tries (fails) to stop thinking.

* * *

**HAPPY LATE CHRISTMAS Y'ALL *throws thousand-word fic at ya***


	9. Competitor

**Genre:** First Encounter

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** Ursa runs into a problem, in the form of a competitor. OC! (BT 1 of 3, RBT 0 of 3)

* * *

The floorboards didn't creak; the Saito family was too good for that. It would cost them dearly.

Ursa stuck to just beside the walls, tiptoeing from the north end. There was no telling what was on the floor, or what trace on the carpet would incriminate her, and Ozai had taught her too well for her to make rookie mistakes. Her target was only a few doors away. The dark hallway stretched behind her, empty and cool and almost too big for the people who walked it.

No. Not empty. She was here...she and another.

She only saw her competitor in flashes of not-quite-pale-enough skin and slight sounds from their footsteps. Would they come for her? Were they here for her target? Another? Were they another line of defense? Who knew - she would have to adapt to them as she went.

* * *

Ichika crept from the south end of the ornate red-and-gold hallway, wondering just why she'd been employed to take out this particular lord on this particular night. Her client had been very specific; it had to be this lord, it had to be tonight, and she had to take this route. Her instincts whispered that the client might be part of the Royal Family, but she ignored that - she had no interest in her clients' or her targets' personal lives, unlike some of her servants. It was hard enough putting up a ladylike façade without the urge to lord secrets over everyone she bumped into on the dance floor.

Speaking of bumping into people, who was that up ahead?

She only caught glimpses of white skin and the slight sound of soft boots on wood. Another assassin? A bodyguard? Were they after the target? Someone else?

Never mind. Just focus on the target. Getting sidetracked had gotten her in enough hot spots already.

* * *

Ursa tried to keep an eye on both her mysterious companion and the door, but as her two eyes tended to try to create a single field of vision, she had to keep switching back and forth. Which was...inconvenient.

Still, she made it to the door with little action from her mysterious visitor. Her hand slipped onto the handle, pushing it down, hoping to Agni that they wouldn't interfere with her mission tonight.

Nope. Her companion slipped towards her and grabbed at the door.

Up close, Ursa could see that her companion was also female, and that she seemed to have foreigner blood. They wore nearly matching outfits: black, not too tight and not too loose, plenty of pockets for poisons and knives. It was a common getup among many who followed the assassin's path, either those who did it because it was the only position of power acceptable for a lady or those who hadn't worked up the courage to tell their families yet. Both had knives in the hands that weren't on the door. She met brown eyes, hardening her own, with a clear message:

_Leave._

The woman backed off. Good. Time to finish her work.

* * *

**ahaha I literally made up the OC as I was writing so have fun I guess (also this was written from like 5-11:30 pm on the last day)**


	10. The King

**Genre:** Supernatural

**Rating:** K plus

**Summary:** Ursa finds something in the woods that no one was ever meant to find. (Urzai horror)

* * *

The woods are no place for humans.

Ursa doesn't care about that. All she wants is to get away from the expectations, the petty rules and empty smiles and leering boys. Silly superstitions are of no concern to her. There is no darkness that the light of science and rationality cannot banish, she knows, and therefore she is not afraid like she should be.

Twigs snag on her dress and snap under her feet as she marches into the darkness, and fog begins to rise up, obscuring her vision of what little path there is. She doesn't care. All that matters to her is that she leaves behind Hir'aa and its stifling prejudice, if only for a few hours. Her way becomes marginally more difficult, tearing the now tattered fabric around her calves to bits and scratching at her skin. She doesn't notice, and even if she had she wouldn't have turned back.

Her anger begins to fade, but her pace doesn't drop. The march becomes the desperate gait of someone who needs to be somewhere, though she doesn't know why or where it is. She only knows that she must go there. The white noise has filled her head. She cannot think to turn back or slow down, and so she only runs on, desperate to find the source of the white noise and whispers.

(There are stories of this in Hir'aa's legends. You must not go into the woods, for if you wander within earshot of the King's call, you will not be able to resist.)

Her surroundings change, fade from living green to dead brown, but it doesn't register that now the twigs snapping beneath her feet have a wet, rotted feel to them, or that there are no longer sharp thorns to make her bleed. Everything here is dead or dying, rotting away in the unnatural twilight. The white noise is softer, now, but the whispers boom inside her skull and beckon her away to an existence beyond. She runs, desperate to find him (it wants to be called 'him,' she knows, but she does not know how she knows), desperate to complete the process-

-and there he is.

She can't see him at first, but she knows he's there, in the mound of rotting, decaying plants and flesh. "My king?" she breathes, not sure how she knows to address him this way. The white noise and whispers are gone, and it is now a silent and invisible force holding her feet to the ground despite her shaking hands and racing heart.

The mound begins to move, limbs separating themselves from the body and stretching out toward her. A white mask, pale like the moon, lifts itself and peers at her despite its lack of features. The King towers over her. She cannot move as he takes her into his hands.

"Hello again," he whispers, soft and welcoming, "my queen."

* * *

**yes I know it's not the Bechdel Test challenge but I really wanted to write this because it was like the only idea I had and I wanted to write some horror stuff**


	11. A Gift for the Prince

**Genre:** Supernatural

**Rating:** K plus

**Summary:** Hera gives her ward an unorthodox pet, among other things. Ozai, of course, loves it.

* * *

Ozai wakes up at sunrise, as always, and remembers that it's his birthday. He lets the thought go. No one has ever much cared – Zhao, who would be probably the only one to care, doesn't even _know_ his birthdate – so why should he? It's just another day of training and trying to avoid Azulon's lust.

He slides out from beneath the blankets to start his day. First, as always, is his firebending practice. He is proud to boast that he has never missed a day, though he has outstripped all his teachers, and he is proud to boast that katas are not the only thing he has mastered; he can change the color of his flame, make it anywhere from a ruby red to sapphire blue, with only a breath and a thought. Zhao is not here right now, so there's no point in showing off. No one else is watching. He moves through his advanced katas, changing the color of his fire as he goes, finding a sort of release in the way he uses his ever-constant rage.

(It's fine. He's fine. It's not like he needs people to tell him he's anything, he doesn't _need_ people, he's _fine _–)

He passes two hours firebending and trying to battle the voice in his head. After practice is tutors, in everything a young Prince is expected to know, handpicked by Iroh himself, because Azulon couldn't be bothered to take two hours for the second son he chose out of hundreds of bastards he's sired and pick a couple of tutors. Government, politics, battle strategy, maths, nothing he can't do easily, and nothing he's really interested in. Every tutor also, by rote, gives him their own little speeches, all written by brother dearest, on compassion or mercy or justice or _he doesn't care._ It's all idealistic nonsense. It makes one weak, gives the world a chance to strike and kill.

Betrayal is inevitable. You can only ever delay it.

It's past noon by the time he's done with his tutors, and he manages to escape to a courtyard. Zhao has arrived, and is now with him, laying sprawled in the shade. It is sweltering. Ozai doesn't mind a bit, and he's fairly sure Zhao's just being dramatic. He wants to paint. He shouldn't. The glorious Fire Nation needs leaders, people strong and brave and cunning enough to bend the masses to their will, not artists.

His internal debate on whether or not to slip the art supplies he has hidden in his robes out for a bit is cut short by the sound of scuttling near the overgrown side. Ozai looks up to see a flash of red claws. Zhao sees them too and turns to Ozai. "I know what you're thinking. Don't do it. Get the guards."

"I don't think the guards are going to be much help here," he says distractedly.

He walks, slowly, steadily, careful not to spook the creature, and kneels before it. It's a giant scorpion, with several exquisitely decorated vases of a style he's never seen before on its back. It's interesting and new and seems to be...less than hostile, to Ozai's delight.

"Ozai," Zhao whispers. "It's a _giant scorpion._ Just leave it be. I don't want you to get eaten."

Ozai laughs. "I'm not going to get eaten." The scorpion lets him stretch out a finger and stroke under its mandibles. "In fact, I think it might be a gift." He smiled. "Happy birthday to me, I suppose."

"It's your birthday?" Zhao asks.

"Mm-hmm." Ozai's a bit too busy scratching under the scorpion's chin to attend to the surprise in his only friend's voice. He stands up and takes one of the vases off, looking inside to find something new. "Would you look at that." He brings out a small wrapped item. "It seems I may have a decent day after all."

* * *

**Zuko: Oh yea, that's Father's giant scorpion. Don't worry about it.**

**Sokka: Your terrible dad had a giant scorpion.**

**Zuko: Yea.**

**Sokka: And you didn't think to tell us this earlier?**

**Zuko: It wasn't really important?**

**Sokka: The GIANT _KRIFFING_ SCORPION _WASN'T IMPORTANT_?**

**Zuko: Calm down. She's not that bad–**

**Sokka: Forget it. This is just one more crazy thing in my crazy life that everyone else seems to think is normal.**


	12. Come Home

**Rating:** Teen/Mature

**Genre:** Tragedy

**Summary:** Jet knows what's coming is wrong. That doesn't make it stop. (Mentions of psychological torture)

* * *

The walls are red.

The walls are red and so is he and Li and the knives girl (_Zuko and Mai, you know this, don't lie to yourself)_ and all the servants that go rushing away when he tries to make them people. He's not supposed to be red, not without blue, but they took the blue from him and gave him all red and black and gold and he doesn't know what to do with that. Li and–Zuko and Mai have their hands on him. They're dragging him somewhere, he doesn't know where, but they're weirdly gentle about it (heh, gentle ashmakers, who knew).

He should run, right? That's what prisoners are supposed to do when they get captured and then an opportunity.

(He's no prisoner anymore. The Fire Lord made that clear enough).

(He wants to be a prisoner again.)

He doesn't run. His destination is not a cell, but somewhere warm and muggy with a pool in the middle. A bathing room. This crazy family's serious about this, aren't they?

The warm water feels good on his skin and the cool water in an artificial puddle to the side feels good on his scalp and the steam feels good in his lungs so there's little to protest as the Prince and his betrothed stroke the dirt off his body with easy motions, rub soap into his hair, massage some sort of lotion into his body. Before, he'd stretch out and enjoy it, make idle chatter. Or he'd fight it at every turn. But now he's quiet, barely registering their touches, too busy being all broken and weary inside to do anything more than lift his limbs as he is lifted.

(Long hours or days or weeks inside a brown box with a locked door and no one to talk to. Exhausting sessions of sudden opulence and overwhelming sensation and the Fire Lord himself deconstructing and destroying every argument he had, every statement he made.

Worst of all, knowing there is no way out.)

He barely notices when they stand him up again and start stringing on the fancy change of clothes they took with them. A servant who won't let themself be a person scurries over and takes the old robe from the Prince's hands, then scurries away when he shakes his head to tell them they won't be needed. He should be awake for this, at least a little, but he's been in this state of shock since he was let out of his cell for the last time, since he first heard the title, the curse, Ozai had put on him. The red halls blur past him again, and he walks a little, so that the dragging is turned to mere guiding. There's daylight at the end of the hall, and the sound of cheering.

He knows what's up ahead, and for the first time he tugs himself back in fear. Zuko and Mai don't let him go far.

The light comes closer, and so does the sound, a wall of inappropriately happy noise that only makes him tremble at the memory of what he has done. Ozai is there. He waits and smiles, like he always does, lording over Jet the fact that he is better, sharper, quicker, more ruthless without ever letting anyone else know. Jet and Zuko and Mai wait in the entrance, not quite in sight of the crowd below, which quiets as the Fire Lord speaks.

"Today is a special day. Today, we celebrate the return of those who were lost to us." Zuko and Jet step forward at that, to the edge of the balcony. They've rehearsed this. "Today, we welcome home not one, but _two_ lost Princes." Neither smile as Ozai puts a too-gentle hand on Zuko's shoulder and announces: "Our Crown Prince, who, after so many painful months away, has come back to us." Massive cheers sound. "And a young man, the product of a soldier and a savage–" Here, he put his heavy hand on Jet's, but now there is whispering, gossip spreading from person to person at the speed of sound. "–yet one of Agni's chosen, powerful enough to be claimed as Royal!"

As they rehearsed, he lifts his hand, red in his hair and on his robes, and shoots the wrong blue to the sky.

His delusion is over. He is, and has always been, one of them.

* * *

***maniacal laughter***


	13. Off the Record

**Genre:** Dark Comedy, Friendship

**Rating:** T for mentions of adult themes

**Summary:** A lady and a lord of the night meet up and talk. (Urzai AU)

* * *

The night was warm, the streets were busy, the bar was crowded. All of these were good things for Ozai.

He lounged in one of the seats, specifically chosen to look secluded but be in full view, and watched the patrons for interest or friendly faces. At least he wasn't onstage tonight with his sisters–there was something about the way they moved, something about the way they were _forced_ to move, that sickened him. (How _dare_ those patrons want their bodies? How _dare_ they treat his sisters, his mothers and aunts, his _family_, like nothing more than objects!) It was a more conventional crowd today. The general populace did not like the idea that there were non-female, non-male-serving prostitutes in their country. Like their wives, their daughters, weren't just paintings to be admired.

The irony of it was delicious and disgusting.

Another figure walked into the bar–female, though not curvy like so many women Ozai has known. Normally he would take no notice of yet another person coming in the door he's watching, but this one has a familiar face attached to it, not to mention knives and poisons and all manner of wonderful little lethal party tricks. Ever since he'd spotted her breaking into some nobleman's mansion in the Caldera after his wife had hired him for a good time, they'd been immediate friends.

Ursa spots him back and raises an eyebrow–she's no stranger to the depravity of the streets, thanks to Ozai, but it's not often he's put on display. Usually he's in the back, waiting for someone to come in with a request. She walks over, casually sliding into the seat opposite him, and flumps backwards into the cushions. "Agni. At least I have someone I can drop the act with now."

He chuckles. "High society getting to ya?"

"How in smokes am I going to 'find a husband' or some ash like that? _Why?_ I've got Ikem, why look for anyone else? How hard is it to understand that I'm not gonna marry for status? I can get that on my own!"

"M-hm." Ozai knew when to let her rant.

"Not to mention some of my suitors. Barely better than these ashbrains." Here she gestured to the bargoers, disgust in the motion. "I just want to take some of them and flay them alive as an example to the others."

"Mm."

"Oh, that'd be _fun._ Agni, the look on their _faces_ when they realize I'm more than just a pretty face and a body to smash." The look on her face softened. "But you know more about that than I do, don't you?"

He gave her a little sardonic grin. "Ah, now you remember who you're talking to."

"Pfft." She gave his arm a light punch, knocking him a little to the side. "Why do you think I'm ranting to _you_ of all people?"

"What, is your little paragon of naivety somehow worse than a literal prostitute?"

"Oh hush. You haven't even _met_ Ikem, even if you're right."

"I'm _always_ right. Even when I'm wrong. First rule of dealing with clients."

"_Riiiight._ Well, I don't know exactly how being a prostitute differs from being an assassin-for-hire, but it's usually the _client_ who's always right."

"Maybe, but _you_ don't need total confidence in the act. Anyone who's watching you is about to _die._"

"Exc_use_ me? Collateral damage is for beginners, I will have - client."

They both immediately moved to opposite ends of the corner table, dropping their jibes and trying to look like they had nothing to do with each other. Those who were in the businesses of pleasure and death generally didn't, and appearance was everything in their lines of work. The person headed towards them was an older woman, hard-faced and determined. From her expression, it seemed that she was here for Ursa; Ozai's clients tended to be a little bit more flirtatious. Or shy, depending on experience and confidence.

Still, though, despite her stern expression, it was Ozai she turned to first. "You wouldn't happen to be open for business, would you?"

"I am, Lady," Ozai said, raising an eyebrow, "though I doubt it's the business you expect. My...companion, here, is most likely who you are looking for, if it's pain you want."

She turned to Ursa, who nodded. "Who do you need dead, ma'am?"

The old lady blinked. She seemed unused to such forward language from someone of an occupation perhaps best known for its discretion. "My -" A furtive look around, and she backtracked quickly. "Let us retire to somewhere more private to speak."

Ursa and Ozai shared a look, and with it, a silent conversation. _You really think I should do this? - She's a client, isn't she? - Yea, but she's so formal. Gah. - You're the one who's getting paid. - Fair enough._ She stood up, bowed slightly, and followed the imperious figure into a back room. Ozai watched her go. He enjoyed their conversations, really. She'd grown more and more beautiful as he'd known her, from just another face in the crowd to something familiar and warm, someone he could spar with both verbally and physically. It was easy to relax around her, let off on his protective acidity.

He just wished he was able to find the courage to tell her it had gone beyond friendship.

* * *

**As always, reviews and constructive criticism would be very much appreciated!**


	14. Return

**Rating:** K plus

**Genre: **Supernatural/Horror

**Summary:** Ursa comes back to the rotted meadow after a while, and finds something new. (Sequel/Companion to The King, Urzai)

* * *

The compulsions were growing too strong. She had to go back into the woods.

Dreams of the King and the decay tormented her with their strange new siren song. Every day she grew weary of the sun. Every night she laid wide awake for hours, fighting the desperate desire to walk into his arms and never come back. The trees seemed to beckon her. Every bit of rot seemed to mock her.

It was during the night, alive with visions of death and rot, that she found herself rising. She didn't think she could have stopped herself if she wanted too. The decay was inside her now, and her body begged to go back, and she could not deny herself that delicious, addictive joy.

The edge of the forest, as always, was green and loud with life, cicadas and small animals hooting and calling and chirping their love messages to potential mates and scuttling their way across and through the undergrowth. Ursa paid no attention to the noises around her. The voice inside her, whispering and silky and crumbling, was the only thing she wanted to hear. She wore pants and boots this time, having enough sense to wrestle herself out of her nightgown and into more sensible clothing, and the thorns and branches tore at them as she walked through the forest, heading towards _him_. As before, her surroundings began to change, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but change they did: from green to brown, from sharp thorns to rotted wood, from loud animals to quiet solitude. Hours of walking, it seemed like, as much as it could seem like hours when time no longer existed.

The meadow, as always, was brown and dark, shrouded from the living world, but now there was something new. A little cottage, rich and luxurious in design, sat in the middle of the yellowed grass and dark mulch. The voice filled her head and beckoned her inside and she followed.

It was cool inside the cottage, with soft carpets and shadows dancing over the furniture. Two bowls waited on the low table, their contents black and rotted, and she drifted over to the closest. A welcoming gift.

She felt a presence enter as she knelt and smiled. "Hello again, my King." Her very own, hers to keep.

The arms that fell on her were heavy and cool, and the voice that spoke in her ear was strong and deep, with the same silky smoothness and soft crumbling as had been inside her. "Hello, my Queen. Welcome home."

* * *

**Am I doing sequels because I'm running out of fresh ideas? No! What gave you that idea? Who said that?**


End file.
